


We All Who Search For Home

by spaceliquid



Category: The Banner Saga (Video Games)
Genre: Cultural Differences, Dubious Consent (in dream sequence), F/M, Fluff, Gangbang (in dream sequence), Horror Elements, Interspecies Relationship(s), Language Barrier, Spoilers for TBS3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 07:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17096297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceliquid/pseuds/spaceliquid
Summary: Initially Folka was against taking the wounded stonesinger with them and insisted on killing him on the spot. But the stonesinger turned out to be useful, quiet, and never argued with her orders, which already made him alright in Folka's book.





	We All Who Search For Home

**Author's Note:**

> SO. This is... a crackship. A crackship that [pollution-of-subterranean-waters](http://pollution-of-subterranean-waters.tumblr.com/) and I came up with, and now it has taken over our lives. One day I just found myself writing this, and I couldn't stop until the fic was finished.  
> Hope you enjoy!

When the dredge stonesinger wiped out the warped enemies with his explosive spell for the first time, Folka finally (albeit begrudgingly) accepted the fact that he was traveling with their party. Maybe Bolverk was going crazy, inviting the slag to join them, but this was not the worst of his decisions.

But then Bolverk completely lost his mind, the two creepy Valka appeared with the varl who was called either Iver or Yngvar, Folka fell under a mind control spell and was released from it, and now they were heading straight into the heart of the Darkness to undo the end of the world.

Yeah, the stonesinger's presence became something rather trivial compared to that. He was useful, quiet, and never argued with Folka's orders, which already made him alright in Folka's book.

So when a warped varl warrior raised his axe over the stonesinger, who was concentrated on weaving his spell, Folka stepped in and met the hit with her shield instead. She grunted on the impact, the strength of it almost making her knees buckle, but stood her ground. Varl were fearsome warriors even without the soul-draining taint of the Darkness.

But then the hum behind her ended on a high jingling note, and Folka felt the wild, primeval magic resonate with her armor, cracking it, and flow through her, filling her arms with its strength. Grinning, Folka parried the next hit with ease, and her spear vaporized the warped varl.

When she looked around, the battle was over. Oli was picking up his throwing axes from a pile of warped ash, Sparr was brushing the soot off his coat, Iver was helping wounded Eyvind up. The dredge hurler - a new foundling of theirs - was collecting her stones. Everyone looked alive, and this was already something among the sickly gloom on the warped world.

And the spell – Folka was still feeling its invigorating effects, like she was ready to burst with energy. It was kind of like being tipsy (but more useful in battle), which put her in a good mood.

“Nice job!” she said, turning to the stonesinger, and slapped his shoulder as she would Mogun's or Oli's.

The stonesinger swayed and made a huge step back, almost falling over. Folka raised a brow at him; yes, she had noticed that the dredge weaver's bandaged legs didn't seem to hold him very well, but a pat on the shoulder from a human shouldn't have made him stumble.

And now he was standing there, and although his face was fully covered with bandages (in fact, Folka suspected that the stonesinger was blind), it seemed like he was staring at her. Folka shivered.

“What?” She asked, trying to hide her discomfort behind the usual snark.

Alfrun's cackle came from behind.

“Sculptors consider touches to be something very intimate.” The witch approached Folka, leaning on her staff, and grinned. “You've basically just proposed.”

“What?” Folka said again, feeling how her face was becoming red. “I... I didn't mean it like that! Tell him!”

Still cackling, Alfrun turned to the stonesinger and hummed the translation. Folka noticed that he was rubbing his shoulder as Alfrun spoke. The Ravens and the rest of the party also came closer and now were listening in (even the faen Valka).

The stonesinger waited until Alfrun finished, and then hummed something in reply.

“He says it's all right,” Alfrun translated.

“'It's all right'? And that's it?” Folka couldn't believe her ears. The stonesinger shuffled his feet and rubbed his shoulder again.

“What else did you want to hear, girlie?” Alfrun chuckled. “A yes?”

The Ravens started laughing, and Folka growled.

“Enough! We need to get moving before more warped arrive.” She gripped her shield and looked over her Ravens, meeting each of their gazes and silencing the laughs.

“Folka is right.” Thankfully, Iver interfered. “Tend to your wounds and prepare to march.”

Meanwhile the female hurler was talking to the stonesinger, and although the dredge lacked facial expressions, Folka was fairly sure that the female was deeply amused.

Well. At least the faen stonesinger was having a bad time too.

***

Right when Folka thought their situation couldn't get any worse, it did: Bolverk tried to kill her, and they all jumped into a pitch-black hole in the ground and found themselves in a vast underworld, that, according to the menders, served the dredge as home. Only now it was warped too.

Folka didn't know how they managed to stay in relatively high spirits as they walked past jagged landscapes of black and purple. Perhaps it was too nightmarish for her mind to fully comprehend it as real; too strange, too alien. She didn't know what this world looked like before the Darkness. Were there fields? Forests? Rivers? Villages? She doubted it was friendly to humans, but Alfrun walked here before.

Folka soon learned that there were villages indeed: numerous dwellings carved in a rocky wall. She saw the dark entrances – and soon met the village's inhabitants, warped into mindless beasts.

Funny; a while ago Folka would've described all dredge as mindless beasts.

The battles were becoming a routine too, losing their initial impact. They were exhausting, and dangerous, but the warped dredge's hollers didn't chill her blood the way they did in the beginning. With time, even the horrors became mundane – until new horrors appeared.

They dealt with the warped dredge rather quickly; for some reason there were mostly slingers around here. But Folka didn't have time to muse about it, because Krumr cursed and pointed at the stairs that led up to the stone dwellings.

“What new devilry is this?”

Folka squinted, and immediately gripped her spear. The wide stairway was covered with small moving figures. They've never met these foes before; they looked small and slow, but one could never know what to await from warped monsters.

And then the dredge hurler let out a shrill warble and recoiled, covering her face. Most Ravens were still exchanging confused glances, but Iver put his axe down, voice grim.

“Children,” he said, and Folka's blood grew cold. “Those are warped children.”

Now she could see it too: the creatures were human-shaped, smaller ones crawling and bigger ones waddling down the stairs, tiny bodies twisted into purple-black abominations. And they were shrieking, oh gods, they were _shrieking_.

There was a low thud behind her, and Folka turned around. The stonesinger had his spears standing upright and vibrating; he was weaving a spell.

No one in the party moved. They remained there in silence, allowing the dredge to weave, and watched the aimlessly toddling children. Even Oli didn't say anything. The stonehurler turned away from the sight.

Finally the familiar jingle rang, and multiple blasts covered the stairway. In the next moment there was nothing but purple ash covering the rocky steps.

The stonesinger put down his spears and lowered his head.

***

The rest of the day's march passed in heavy silence. Iver was walking at the head of the caravan, his back unnaturally stiff, while Folka kept falling back, turning her head now and then.

The stonesinger was walking last, his usually uneven steps even more shaky. His spears seemed to weigh a ton. When the party finally stopped for the rest, he stayed at the edge of the safe golden dome, sitting on a boulder with his shoulders drooped. Even the hurler didn't approach him, for the first time choosing to stay close to the others. The Ravens didn't drive her away.

“Hey.” Folka finally gathered up her courage and walked to the stonesinger. He didn't react, just shifted slightly.

Folka bit her lip, mulling over what to say.

“Look,” she uttered, “I know you won't understand me, but for what it's worth, I think you did the right thing. You saved them in the only way that was left.”

Perhaps it was the tone of her voice, but the stonesinger raised his head and... “looked” at her. Folka could never tell if he actually could see, or if he relied on some other senses. But then he shifted again, his pose becoming more open, and Folka lifted her hand, unsure if she understood correctly. The stonesinger didn't move away, and slowly she put her palm on his shoulder.

It was warm under the fabric of the cape and bandages, warm and alive. Not a cold stone like she expected.

Cold stone couldn't grieve.

Folka's lips curved in a sad smile.

“It's gonna become easier,” she said. “Not now, but... it will.”

The stonesinger didn't reply, so she just stayed there for a while. When they returned to the bonfire, they returned together.

***

“What's his name?”

“I'm sorry, what?” Alfrun looked up from her witchcraft supplies, raising an eyebrow at the tall shieldmaiden.

“What's his name?” Folka repeated, pointing at the dredge weaver at the other side of the camp. “I cannot always call him 'stonesinger'.”

As she was speaking, a huge grin was blooming on the witch's face.

“Why don't you go and ask him yourself, huh?” Alfrun snickered. “I will translate for you, no problem.”

Folka sighed, exasperated.

“Why must you make everything so difficult, witch?”

“I just think it's not polite to talk about someone behind their back.” Alfrun put the assortment of little bags in her lap back into her sack and stood up. “If you want to know his name, ask him directly.” She beckoned Folka. “Come on, let's go.”

Folka felt incredibly stupid, walking behind the witch to the place where the two dredge were settled. Like she was a little girl once more. And then both dredge stopped whatever they were doing and stared at her.

“Well?” Alfrun glanced at her, leaning on her staff. “Go on, ask.”

Folka sighed again.

“Please ask, um, them, what their names are.”

“Oh? So now it's 'their'?” Alfrun chuckled at Folka's glare, but turned to the dredge and translated.

The two listened to her, then the female made a melodious chirping sound and hummed. The stonesinger's answer was shorter.

Alfrun nodded and turned to Folka.

“She says that you won't be able to pronounce her name anyway, so you can call her however you want.” Alfrun made a short pause. “ _He_ says that in honor of his lady Chime he's calling himself Apostate.”

“Apostate,” Folka nodded, tasting the name. The stonesinger tilted his head when she did – probably memorizing how it sounded in human tongue.

The female watched the scene, moving her unblinking yellow gaze between them, and then made that chirping sound again.

Folka glanced at Alfrun.

“What did she say?”

“Oh, nothing.” Alfrun half-shut her eyes. “That was laughter.”

***

Fighting next to Apostate became a habit. He needed someone to defend him while he was weaving his spells, after all; and it didn't mean that Folka never left his side. She found herself in the midst of the battle quite often, but she always made sure to watch out for a warped creature making way to their stonesinger.

And then Apostate would cut the creature in two, and Folka would be reminded that the seemingly weak stonesinger was a force to reckon with even in melee. He could look unsteady on his feet, but he was still a dredge, stronger and more durable than any human.

Like Bolverk was...

Folka shook her head, trying to drive these thoughts away as she walked behind Iver. That wound was too fresh, and it still stung.

Better think about something else.

As if called upon, Dytch appeared to her right, startling her.

“Hey! Is it fine if I walk with you? I won't be loud, I promise. Maybe it's better if you talk? You've been spending time with that dredge weaver. Is he good company?”

“Right, what's up with that, Folka?” Oli guffawed from behind, and the rest of the Ravens joined him.

“Yes, I like him,” Folka said in a perfectly even voice. “He doesn't speak.”

That earned her a round of approving laughter, and the sensitive topic was forgotten. Dytch returned to the back of the caravan, embarrassed, leaving Folka with confused emotions.

She did like Apostate's company. She liked the Ravens too, and was proud of being part of them, but due to her position of second-in-command she never grew close to any of them... except for Bolverk. Who was now hunting them like prey.

And Folka now led what was left of the Ravens, which destroyed any possibility of her getting close to them.

The stonesinger didn't care for any of this. Folka wasn't his leader, she wasn't even his species. He seemed to be welcoming her presence, and he never questioned her abilities or authority because she was a woman. He even accepted her touches.

In fact, now that she thought about it, he spent more time with Folka than with the hurler. Who, by the way, seemed to get along quite well with the Ravens; they actually started inviting her to their bonfire after a while. Just yesterday Oli insisted on trying the contents of the flask she took out of her bag, loudly proclaiming that “whatever a gal drinks, he can drink”. After Alfrun confirmed that the drink was safe for humans, Oli did take a gulp and fell on the ground in a drunken stupor. Folka watched these events from the outside of the Ravens circle – as did Apostate.

Maybe he was just lonely.

Folka turned her head, catching a glimpse of him in the middle of the caravan, his spears rising over the heads of the humans. She stopped herself in time before she sent him a smile.

***

The caravan halted before an unexpected obstacle: a giant creature of many eyes, looming over the hills in the distance. Fortunately, there was another settlement carved in the rocky wall – this time it was more of a town than a village. Folka expected to face all the town's inhabitants, but it turned out to be empty.

Folka, Iver and the Valka didn't argue much: they quickly led their party to the abandoned dredge dwellings to hide until the monster left. Although Alfrun mentioned that the creature wasn't hostile, she also stated that it was warped now. And nothing good ever came from the warped.

Most of the party members were happy to rest in real houses for once. Dredge houses, but it didn't change anything: they had roofs, they had beds, and this was what mattered.

Folka ushered the last of her Ravens (the nervous Dytch) into the shelter before choosing one for herself. She deliberately aimed for the one to the side; she didn't want to share a house with the Valka - or even worse, the witch.

The house didn't have a door, but the entrance area led to a set of chambers, all carved in solid rock. Folka stopped in the middle of what looked like a central room and dropped her travel sack on the floor. The low thud echoed across the room, and then the empty house returned to its solemn silence.

“Thanks for the shelter,” Folka said, more to calm herself down. She doubted there were any gods or spirits left that might still be looking over the house.

She expected this place to be just a cave, but now that she took a look around, it did resemble an abandoned home. Clusters of plump glowing mushrooms were growing in the corners, filling the room with pale green light; at the height of Folka's knees the walls turned into wide benches covered in blue and black fabrics; and right below the ceiling a line of carved images decorated the walls, circling the room. Folka could see dredge-shaped figures of various sizes, depicted in different actions. Maybe something like a banner of the family that lived here?

Folka wondered if this family made it out of the Darkness.

She heard a rustle to her right, and immediately her hand was on her spear, her shield up. But, fortunately, it wasn't the warped owner of the house: it was just Apostate.

“Oh.” Folka put her weapons down. “Sorry. I didn't realize this place was occupied.” He didn't reply, since he clearly didn't understand her, so for a little while they stood in awkward silence. But then Apostate stepped out of the room and made an inviting gesture.

Folka picked up her sack and walked past him, her cheeks starting to burn for some reason. Well, if she had to share a shelter with someone, Apostate wasn't the worst option.

The room turned out to be a place for sleeping. It had the same benches at every wall, just much wider, and a crib in the middle. Enough space for several adults and a bunch of kids to sleep. Folka cast a short glance at the crib; but no, no warped infants here.

Folka put her things on one of the benches – the opposite from the one where two heavy spears rested. The bench's surface was covered in some kind of moss, dry and spongy. Not a bad mattress; definitely better than bare ground. Folka briefly wondered if this place reminded Apostate of his own home, wherever it used to be.

Speaking of Apostate, he didn't return to the room. Leaving her sack and shield here, Folka went out only with the spear in hand. She found the stonesinger in the entrance area, facing the exit.

“We'll just stay here until the monster leaves,” Folka said, walking up to him. “Hopefully we won't lose more than a day.”

He made a low tone, and although Folka didn't know what it meant, it made her smile.

***

“Damn, we're almost out of water.” Folka weighted her goatskin, listening to the faint splashing. “And we can't even go look for it.”

Apostate stopped sharpening his spear to listen to her, and then put the spear away altogether. He stood up, made a beckoning gesture and led curious Folka out of the room and to a small chamber at the back of the common area.

“I checked it already, there is nothing here,” Folka began, but then Apostate pushed at the huge stone slab that Folka took for a table, and moved it aside. Folka's eyes widened; she always forgot just how damn strong the spindly stonesinger was. And his arms actually looked like twigs!

But in the next moment she forgot about Apostate, because what the slab revealed was... a pool. A rather large, knee-deep pool full of crystal clear water.

“By the gods!” Folka leaned down and scooped up a handful of water. It was cool and tasted wonderfully. She turned to Apostate, elated. “Do you want some?”

He continued standing straight, swaying slightly. Suddenly Folka realized that she had never seen either dredge eat or drink. But they had to, right? Their kind always took the supplies when they pillaged villages. Maybe they just didn't like to do it in front of others? It would be hard to drink or eat with all those bandages and masks covering their faces.

“I'll leave you to it,” Folka said after she filled her goatskin, and exited the chamber. The fact that Apostate stayed inside confirmed her suspicions. Fine, let him have his privacy.

Although it left her curious; what did Apostate's face look like? She had seen other dredge faces – mostly warriors and stoneguards – and she found them quite ugly. Apostate probably was similar... except there was something wrong with his eyes.

That creepy Sundr they met in the mines, Eyeless – it looked like a giant stonesinger, and its eyes were stitched shut. Was this something they did to Apostate too? Sewed his eyes shut?

She shivered at the thought as she sat down on her bench. Actually, all stonesingers looked unhealthy. Crippled even. Was it the result of some ritual? Or was it something their magic did to them? It was a rather violent magic, nothing like the menders' healing and building. Apostate's spells broke armor and exploded wounded dredge. Were they hurting him too?

Approaching steps outside of the room made Folka jump, like she was caught doing something embarrassing. _“It's not polite to talk about someone behind their back,”_ Alfrun's voice whispered in her mind. _“If you want to know, ask him directly.”_

Folka shook her head. No, she wasn't going to ask Apostate about his magic, or its effects on his body. Especially not when Alfrun was her only translator.

As Apostate sat down on his bench at the opposite wall, Folka noticed wet spots on the bandages covering his mouth. When she turned away, she was blushing.

***

Before it was time for sleep, Dytch sneaked into Folka's shelter, informing her that everyone was doing fine and awaiting orders. Folka told him to put several men on watch duty and come tomorrow morning, so that they could resolve if it was safe to march. Although morning was relative in the sunless gloom of the broken underworld. She also told him how to find water, and Dytch departed, happier than before.

But before going to sleep, Folka decided to use the luxury of the water pool and clean herself. Of course, it was nothing like bathing in a river, but a wet cloth was better than nothing.

Folka's least favorite part of bathing was getting naked. And it wasn't the fact that she was usually surrounded by a bunch of unruly men, although that didn't help. But after one of the Ravens decided to play a “joke” on her (during her early days in the band) and intrude on her bath, he found himself with a spear through his stomach and guts on the grass. Bolverk didn't punish her; he just snorted and said that it “served the idiot right”. The story was passed down to newly hired Ravens, and they left Folka alone.

No, that was an old story. Truth was, Folka simply didn't like to look at herself. She knew she wasn't pretty – just like her character wasn't appealing. She used to cut wood for a living, and now she was cutting people for a living. Even those who respected her saw her as an aberration of sorts, a woman who failed at being a woman. Folka got used to it and accepted it... But knowing that no one would ever want to touch her still hurt.

She tried being with a man once. He was half-drunk and rough, and it hurt, so Folka pushed him away and left. He yelled at her back, calling her a stupid cow, but Folka didn't even care to deal with him. All she wanted was to escape and forget all of this.

She sighed, sitting down on the stone slab next to the pool. No, no, she didn't need those memories now. She felt familiar old bitterness forming a lump in her throat and hurried to splash water on her face. Calm down, Folka. Calm down. The world is ending, there is no time for your petty personal woes.

Maybe this was why she enjoyed traveling with Bolverk so much. He was a varl; he didn't understand all the things he called “human mating nonsense”. He liked her and respected her...

And he left her.

Folka covered her face, forcing that lump back. Gods, why now? She couldn't just break like this, over some stupid, unimportant...

The entire house shook, low rumbling sound reverberating through the rock. Folka jumped up, cursing. She didn't have her spear with her, so she grabbed the dagger from the pile of clothing, quickly throwing her cloak over her neck, and ran to the entrance area. Apostate was there too, emerging from the bedroom with his spears ready for attack.

But before she could peer out of the doorway, she froze, squinting at the strange sight. She didn't see the landscape that was there before; instead, there was some weird mass blocking the view, and it was... moving?

“What...?” she started, but suddenly someone grabbed her and pushed her into the shadows. When Folka caught her breath, she realized that Apostate was pressing her to the wall, blocking her with his body, his hand covering her mouth. And then the mass behind the doorway wobbled, shifted – and gave place to a giant lidless eye.

Folka forgot how to breathe, standing completely still. She felt bare and helpless, like the eye could pierce the shadows of the dredge house, pinning her to the floor. But then the eye disappeared, another hit shook the rocky formation – and the mass blocking the entrance moved away, letting the dim purple light of the underworld into the room.

Apostate took his hand off her mouth, and only then did Folka remember to exhale.

“Gods...” She was shaking; her fingers hurt from clenching the dagger's hilt too hard. She took a slow breath and pressed her forehead to Apostate's chest. “That faen thing...”

The sense of reality was slowly returning to her, and suddenly she realized that she was still basically naked, with only her cloak serving as a weak barrier between her and the stonesinger. And that he didn't move away when she leaned on him; instead, he was carefully (and inexpertly) stroking her arm.

Folka gathered up the tattered remnants of her composure and straightened her back.

“I'm fine,” she said, not looking at Apostate. “Thank you. I need to check on the others...”

He stepped back, perhaps reading her body language; Folka wrapped her cloak around herself firmly, gathered up her courage and looked out of the doorway.

She immediately met Iver's gaze; the varl emerged from the house next to hers, and further down the terrace she saw Mogun's blond beard and Alfrun's wild mane.

Luckily, everyone survived the monster's passing. The party was lucky to have enough people who knew what was going on – namely, the menders, Alfrun, and the stonehurler. They prevented others from trying to attack or attract the monster's attention. But now the creature was slowly moving through the fields with its back to them, and Folka expected it to return at any moment.

The decision to stay put and wait for a day or two was unanimous.

***

The mossy bed was surprisingly comfortable, but Folka couldn't sleep. She was exhausted, her chest still hurt at every inhale after the terror she experienced earlier, and her mind was restless. But instead of memories of the monster and possible strategies for survival it was filled with the least appropriate things.

Now that she was in the safety of her bed, she couldn't stop remembering how Apostate's body felt against hers. He, who always kept his distance and avoided any accidental touches, was suddenly pinning her to the wall, even going so far as to put his hand on her face.

Yes, he was protecting her and trying to sign her to be silent, and Folka appreciated it, since he most likely saved her life today. But he also stroked her arm in an attempt to calm her down, and knowing what Alfrun said... He wouldn't do it for anyone, would he?

Folka shifted under her fur blanket, biting her lip. She was fully dressed again, but she still remembered the sensation of hard stone armor against her naked skin – and the warmth of another's body where the armor ended.

No; no, this was a very, very wrong direction for her thoughts to go. Nothing good ever came for Folka out of such thoughts. She learned her lessons long ago: she was a shieldmaiden, and she'd be happier if she stayed away from love affairs. Especially if the object of her feelings wasn't even human.

And gods, was she really thinking this way about a dredge? Just several weeks ago she lashed out at Bolverk for taking the wounded stonesinger with them and insisted on killing him on the spot. They fought and killed numerous dredge, and now she was getting all flustered about one of them?

She couldn't want him. She couldn't. This was disgusting; _she_ was disgusting for even considering it. Disgusting and pathetic.

Still, Folka wasn't one to run away from painful truth, no matter how shameful it was. Damn, she really had the worst of luck; first a varl, and now a dredge. Perhaps fate, or dead gods, or whoever was playing these tricks on her, really wanted to drive it home: no man would ever be with her.

Folka cast a side glance at Apostate, but the stonesinger, damn him to the depths, was sleeping peacefully, curled up around the shafts of his spears.

Folka turned away from him, closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sleep.

***

She was walking through a snowstorm, covering her eyes with the back of her hand. The Ravens' caravan was nowhere to be seen; she must've fallen behind. Bolverk would be so pissed. Or lose half of his warriors by now, because he was mostly relying on Folka for keeping them together.

She had to find them, but the snowstorm must've covered the tracks of the carts. Folka stopped in a clearing surrounded by trees. The wind was weaker here, and she could look around. She carefully studied the snowy landscape, searching for any sign of a recently passed caravan.

They appeared between the trees silently: four dark grey figures, armed with heavy hammers and clubs. Folka raised her shield and spear, preparing for a fight – but the dredge weren't attacking. They just stood there, watching her with glowing yellow eyes.

Folka frowned, observing them as intensely as they did her. Maybe she could back off slowly, and they wouldn't attack? She started moving back, step by step – but then the dredge moved too. With every step she took they made two – but they still didn't raise their weapons.

And then her back bumped into something, and a hand grabbed her spear above her own grip, breaking the shaft. Folka spun around – only to face the fifth dredge, a huge stoneguard, who somehow sneaked on her from behind.

Yet he didn't attack as well; instead, he moved his grip to her wrist, firm but not painful. Folka struggled, trying to break free and grasping for her shield, but it was nowhere to be seen. More hands were placed on her waist and hips, and she realized that she was surrounded: the four dredge from before were right next to her now, and they were touching her all over, stroking her arms and her tightly bound breasts.

“No,” Folka whispered, but her body felt heavy, sluggish. She couldn't move her feet, couldn't push them away, and it felt like every caress was robbing her of more of her strength. Someone lifted her skirts, baring her skin to the frosty air, but Folka felt no cold. The stoneguard slipped his free hand between her legs, and she gasped, clamping her thighs around it. This didn't stop him, and his fingers moved, teasing her, leaving her knees weak. Another body pressed to her back, hard stone and hot skin, and Folka begged them – to stop or to continue, she didn't know anymore.

Bolverk was there too, watching, and then he morphed into Alfrun, who cackled and swooshed her staff.

“Enjoying it, sweetie?” the witch singsonged. Folka shook, nearly in tears. _No_ , she wanted to say, _no, I'm not, I can't_ , and yet she _was_.

When the first dredge warrior entered her, she cried out and woke up.

Apostate was standing over her, shaking her softly and warbling in concern.

Folka sat up, sweaty and breathing heavily, and pushed the crumpled blanket aside. Apostate backed away, giving her space, but stayed next to her bed, watching her. The remnants of her dream swirled in Folka's head. Her body burned where the dredge hands touched her, and there was wetness between her legs. Yet even hotter burned the flames of shame.

She enjoyed it. Forced and punished and faced with her revolting desires, she enjoyed it.

Another worried warble made her lift her head. She almost expected to see the stoneguard's grim visage – but it was just Apostate. With his stupid bandages and sickly thin limbs, familiar and _safe_.

Relief washed over her like a tidal wave; Folka wiped the sweat off her forehead, pushing the wet bangs aside. She felt the heat radiating from her body, and recent memories returned, uninvited: her, pinned against the wall, nothing but thin fabric separating naked skin from stone armor, Apostate's hand on her mouth. And he did it to save her life; it was her mind that turned an innocent event into a filthy dream.

As if sensing her thoughts, Apostate raised his hand. Folka stared at his outstretched palm, not quite comprehending what was happening – until she realized that he didn't move otherwise. He was waiting for her reaction, hand hanging in the air between them.

So polite, as always. Folka couldn't help but chuckle.

Alfrun's word from many days ago repeated in her head. _“You've basically just proposed.”_

Ah, to the depths with it.

Folka took Apostate's hand and tugged, pulling him on the bed. He landed in an uncomfortable pose, with his knees on both sides of her legs, and went completely still. Once again Folka felt like he was staring at her without eyes.

“The world is ending,” Folka said, averting her gaze. “We are all probably gonna die. What does anything matter?”

Apostate didn't move for a little while, and then carefully freed his hand, formed a circle with his thumb and index finger... and put a finger of his other hand through it in a terribly familiar crude gesture. His head was tilted in question.

Folka couldn't help herself: she burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed, while Apostate appeared more and more confused.

“What deranged Valka taught you that?” Folka groaned, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. “But yes... Yes, that's what I meant.” She took his hand again and put it on her waist. “If you want to,” she added, suddenly ashamed of herself. Was she too pushy? Damn, she couldn't do anything right when it came to personal things...

But then Apostate's fingers slowly wrapped around her waist. He shifted on the bed until he was sitting on his heels, and just as slowly he pulled her close, until their chests were pressed together.

Folka's breath got caught in her lungs. In this moment it all became too real; the two of them on the bed, arms wrapped around each other, warmth spreading where they touched. It felt divine – having another body against her, even if it was all hard armor edges and layers of fabric.

It was more than she had ever had.

Folka closed her eyes, teeth sinking into her lower lip. Suddenly she felt like a fraud; how did it come to this? How dare she even try, she who didn't even look or act like a woman, what did she hope for?

And then it dawned upon her: Apostate couldn't see her. Her scarred face, her too-large body, her short straw hair. And even if he could, he wouldn't recognize what was wrong with it. To him, she would be ugly because she was human, not because she was... her.

This thought hit her like a hammer strike, and Folka barely held back a sob of relief. She gripped his shoulders tightly, hiding her face in his yellow cape, and felt a familiar sensation of a bandaged hand stroking her arm.

When she raised her head again, she was smiling.

“We make an odd couple, don't we?” she murmured, studying his... lack of face. Apostate hummed something, but her inability to understand didn't bother Folka right now. They managed somehow until now, didn't they?

Excited and for the first time daring to try and steal a kiss, she moved her hand to Apostate's face and tried to peel the bandages away – but that made him recoil, almost toppling them over. He shook his head violently, and Folka recognized a “no” when she saw one. Her heart sank.

“No kissing?” she ask, failing to conceal the hurt in her voice. Apostate warbled something, touching his bandages and gesturing wildly. Folka frowned, hurt gradually giving place to logic.

“So you're not gonna show your face? Even in bed?” This sounded like some weird ritualistic thing. Folka made a mental note to ask Alfrun about it. “Fine, I got it.” She sighed. Dredge...

When she looked at Apostate again, the last thing she expected was to see him carefully unwrapping the bandages around his palms.

This sight was strangely entrancing, and Folka found herself watching the deft movements of Apostate's fingers. Swathe by swathe, his hands were released from the fabric. His skin turned out to be a middle shade of grey; a pretty common color for the dredge, as far as Folka could judge.

Apostate tucked the loose ends of the bandages around his wrists, and made a gentle trilling sound, opening his palms to her. Folka couldn't hold back a smile.

“So face is a no, but hands are alright?” She placed her own hands in his and almost gasped, touching his bare skin for the first time. It was... normal. Folka expected something completely alien, like warm stone, but this was definitely skin, if a little coarser than human or varl.

Apostate broke their handhold and slid his palms up her arms, but stopped at her shoulders, unsure. Folka couldn't help but laugh at their mutual awkwardness.

“We both suck at this,” she chuckled, and then took his hands again and put them on her chest. “You can touch.”

Apostate was stupefied, but only for a moment. Then his fingers moved, and Folka lost her breath again. Her first and only time with a man was quick and full of rough squeezing, and even in the rare moments when Folka allowed herself to fantasize how being with a man _(or a varl)_ might be, it was always like that. Yet what Apostate did had nothing to do with that roughness. He stroked her breasts with utmost care, exploring their shape, massaging them softly, and Folka decided she wanted more.

“Wait,” she said, drawing back and tugging at the hem of her dress. “Wait, let me just...”

She loosened the clasps that held her dress together, but in the last minute felt too embarrassed to take it off. However, she undid the bindings that held her breasts, and sighed when the dress's fabric rubbed against the angry red lines that the bindings left on her skin.

Apostate watched her with equal curiosity. The fact that she remained clothed didn't seem to bother him, and as soon as Folka put her bindings away, his hand returned to its ministrations. Folka shivered when she felt his touch through the dress; she was already regretting leaving it on. She wanted to feel it fully, to feel _him_ – warm palm on her breasts, fingers playing with her perked up nipples. Cursing under her breath, she took his hand and guided it underneath her dress through the wide sleeve hole.

Apostate didn't hesitate. He was making soft melodious sounds as he caressed her, like chiming of a bell. His simple touches left Folka breathless, shivering and longing. Sticky wetness was staining her inner thighs, seeping on her skirt, and she couldn't wait anymore. She needed... She needed more.

“Come on,” she tugged at his yellow cape. “Your turn.” Everywhere her hands landed they were met with armor or cloth.

Apostate seemed to understand, for he let go of her and pulled back, busying himself with the clasps of his cape. Folka smiled when Apostate folded it neatly at the feet of the bed; this small show of propriety was kind of... cute. He was probably very tidy and orderly in his own house.

The clang of the stone armor being dropped on the floor brought her attention back to reality, and her eyes widened. Apostate wore a blue tunic under his armor, and now he was pulling it over his head. What Folka saw made her gulp.

He had a couple of bandages across his chest, but most of his skin underneath the tunic was bare – and by gods, it was _covered_ in scars. Not just battle scars, no – these were clearly put there intentionally: long lines that formed intricate patterns on Apostate's skin. Folka had a weird feeling that she had seen them somewhere – but for now it didn't matter. She ran her hands over the scars gently.

“These look painful,” she said quietly. In fact, everything about him looked... wrong. Broken. Those protruding ribs weren't healthy, and something in Apostate's proportions was slightly off: arms too long, hipbones too low. The heavy stone collar that he kept on finished the picture.

It should've been an unpleasant sight – this grey skin and malnourished body – and yet Folka couldn't bring herself to feel repulsed. She looked at his bandaged face and saw Apostate, awkward and nice and familiar, and realized she didn't care. Who was she to judge a person for their appearance?

And somehow that thought made her feel at ease. She grabbed a handful of her own dress and took it off in one swing, throwing it on the floor.

Her heavy breasts swayed with the motion, goosebumps appearing at the contact with the cool air. But she didn't have time to feel embarrassed, because Apostate took her by her hips and moved her onto his lap.

“Woah!” Folka laughed to hide her nervousness. She wasn't used to this, being naked and close to someone. It brought back all the thoughts that plagued her earlier, when she was bathing. She fought the urge to cover herself, to recoil and run away and pretend nothing happened, just to keep her life calm and safely lonely.

But then Apostate wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into his embrace. Her soft breasts pressed into his scarred chest, and something else pressed into her thigh. Folka gasped, her face turning red. So apparently her touches worked on Apostate just as well as his touches worked on her. Emboldened, Folka let her hand slither down and loosen the bandages there, until her fingers found the hard hot flesh.

The stonesinger flinched and went completely still underneath her; she could feel how his nails dug into her skin. For a moment Folka was afraid she was hurting him, but then he made a soft trilling noise and moved his hips, pushing into her hand.

Folka's tense frown melted into a smile.

“Like that, huh?” She stroked him, enjoying the sudden rush of power. She could bring pleasure, apparently; who could've known? Maybe there was hope for her, after all.

Apostate wasn't going to stay behind: it was Folka's turn to freeze when his fingers traced her spine down to her lower back and slipped between her legs again. No, not again; the first time happened in the dream. But this – this was real, and Folka shivered at the obscenely wet sounds, her thighs trembling. Flashbacks from the dream were returning – multiple hands on her, her own unwelcome pleasure, Bolverk's accusing eyes – and she shook her head, driving the memories away. No, not now; this thing now – this was something honest and _good_ , something she wanted.

And she wasn't ashamed anymore.

“Enough,” she murmured, lifting herself off Apostate's lap, “enough. Let's do it.” She stroked his member one last time, angling it, and then sank on it.

She braced for pain, but there was none – just slight discomfort. That drunken idiot years ago probably did all the damage that needed to be done. It seemed fitting – to leave pain in the past and have only joy tonight.

But it was far from joy yet. When Folka finally had Apostate buried in her to the hilt, she was sitting in his lap, shivering and biting the stray lock of hair that got in her face. It was still slightly uncomfortable and weird, definitely not that mind-blowing pleasure people described in raunchy stories. Maybe there was really something wrong with her.

Apostate wasn't moving either. Folka felt her nervousness return full-force; why wasn't he moving? Was it unpleasant to him? Did he expect something from her?

Apostate tilted his head; it looked like he was waiting for something... And then he started vibrating.

“You son of a yox!” Folka jerked in his lap, the new sensation too strong, too unexpected. But Apostate's firm grip kept her in place. He was humming, the low outworldly sound starting in his chest and resonating through his entire body, sending vibrations _inside_ Folka. It was so strange – but after the initial surprise Folka realized she had no complaints. In fact, this could as well be the most amazing thing she had ever experienced.

Her initial discomfort disappeared as she relaxed slowly, giving into the new sensations. Wetness dripped down her thighs, and holding back moans became more and more difficult – but Apostate still wasn't moving. And after a while Folka realized that he probably wasn't even planning to.

Was this how the dredge had sex? Just... vibrating together? That would certainly be enough, Folka could imagine it.

But it also meant she couldn't reciprocate it properly. She was no dredge woman; she couldn't even produce most of the sounds Apostate was making.

It appeared she had to do it the human way.

Folka put her hands on Apostate's shoulders, fighting against the sensory onslaught. Her experience in human sex was extremely limited, but at least she knew what to do. With a grunt, Folka rose on her knees and then went back down.

The steady flow of Apostate's hum broke, turning into a choked gurgle for the moment. Folka felt it too – the intense sensation of friction combined with vibrations. It was almost too much – but then, Folka was never intimidated by “too much”. She was a Raven.

She moved again, and again, until she was riding Apostate in earnest – and now it was he who was trembling in her arms, his humming quavering now and then. Folka grinned through her wet bangs. Seeing him like this made her blood run hot: a powerful weaver who could destroy an army of warped, a warrior who wielded his massive spears with surprising dexterity – and she was making him break his song and hold on to her for dear life.

He tried to intensify his humming, and this time it was Folka who lost her rhythm.

“Oh no you don't”, she breathed out, her eyes glinting. So he wanted a competition? She'd give him a competition! Bracing herself against his shoulders, she increased her pace, delighting in every tiny reaction she could wring out of him. Apostate's hands landed on her hips, to slow her down or to urge her on, Folka couldn't tell. Her own fingers found the rim of the massive collar around Apostate's throat, and she yanked on it, driving him closer to her. Her head was spinning like she was drunk, blood pounding in her ears – an intoxicating rush of power and joy and liberation, and the exertion only made it _better –_ like a particularly good spar or a fight.

Her climax caught her unawares, and suddenly Folka was arching her back, shaking. She lost her pace, and Apostate held her close, vibrations wrecking her as she rode out her release. Suddenly they became overwhelming and then almost too sharp. And, while Folka was coming back to her senses, slumped against Apostate, she realized that he was shaking too, as if shocked by lightning. Folka tried to figure out what was happening, but then another late wave of bliss coursed through her, making her inner walls clench rhythmically, - and Apostate let out an incomprehensible noise, thrashing around underneath her. Then he went limp, and judging by how much wetter Folka suddenly felt, he had just spilled inside her.

“Huh,” Folka muttered, “guess your women don't do that.”

Now that her high had passed, she realized how tired she was. Her inner thighs were sore and chafed after all the rubbing against rough scarred skin. Sighing, Folka pressed her forehead to Apostate's. She felt heavy and sweaty, and there was definitely liquid seeping out of her. Apostate's torso didn't glisten like hers, but his bandages looked much more disheveled than before.

“That was... nice,” she murmured and kissed the place where the corner of his mouth should have been. Apostate jerked his head, making a puffing sound like a confused yox, and Folka laughed.

“Still not one for kisses? That's fine.” She placed her head on his shoulder instead, marveling at the contrast of her pale arms against Apostate's grey skin. They were so different, yet Folka doubted she could ever feel this free with a human man.

Apostate shifted uncomfortably, and Folka straightened her back. Right; he probably wasn't fond of too much touching. It caused a twinge of pain in her heart – somehow, Folka hoped that this little tryst would end happily, with them falling asleep together. But in the end, it was exactly that: a tryst. She didn't even know what Apostate thought about all of this.

She expected Apostate to push her away, but he didn't. Instead he simply leaned back a little, creating some space between them, and put his open palms in front of himself – like an offering. Folka studied him for a moment; Apostate seemed to be waiting for her reaction.

And then she thought she understood.

“Face is a no, but hands are alright, correct?” She smiled and took his hands in her own. Apostate trilled softly, a small excited sound that filled Folka with warmth, and intertwined his fingers with hers. Then he moved both of them carefully, laying Folka down on the bed and settling next to her.

Huh. It appeared like she had just gotten a lover's handshake instead of a lover's kiss.

Folka decided it was more than fine with her. She stretched on the bed, enjoying the afterglow, pulled the blanket over the two of them and closed her eyes. Maybe the world was breaking around them, but at least she got something good out of it.

***

Folka woke up feeling more rested than she ever was in the last months. But even better, she woke up to a warm body next to her – something so unfamiliar that Folka immediately remembered what happened last night.

She turned her head, still afraid that it might've been a dream – but no, Apostate was here, with her – deep in slumber, judging by his even breath. Folka's blanket, which covered her head to toe, only reached up to his shoulders, leaving some bandage-less areas bare.

Folka's gaze fell on the lines of scars covering them. Now she could see every swirl and angle up close. Suddenly it stroke her: she recognized the patterns carved into Apostate's skin. She saw them before indeed – on the menders' staffs. Nikels mentioned that they helped the menders to remember the patterns of the great tapestry and to weave their magic.

Apparently, dredge weavers had a different approach.

She traced a line with her finger. Was this what the great tapestry of creation looked like? Was this how Apostate saw the world? Folka wondered how she would appear in that tapestry.

The rhythm of Apostate's breath changed, and his head moved. Folka looked up at him.

“Hello,” she said, and found his hand under the blanket. He squeezed her palm in return, and Folka's heart leaped in her chest.

***

Dytch slipped into their shelter later that morning. The monster was still prowling the fields to the right from the dredge town, so Folka, Iver and the menders decided to play it safe and stay for one day longer. Folka should've been furious that they were losing precious time and not moving closer to the white tower, but instead she felt glad. She had just found happiness, and she wanted to keep it for a little more, to drink it up and drown in it while it lasted.

She had no idea what Apostate thought, but when she offered him a hand, he always took it.

They spent the entire day in the sleeping room – sometimes repairing their meager belongings or weapons, sometimes joining each other on the bed. Curiously, Apostate insisted they did everything in a sitting position. Folka didn't quite understand why. Perhaps it was a dredge thing.

She didn't complain; she found she quite liked this pose. It made her feel in control.

When the next morning greeted them with a clear horizon, no monsters in sight, Folka and Iver gave an order to move out. It was easy to fall into a familiar routine, and no one noticed anything different – except for Alfrun, who narrowed her eyes as she studied Folka.

“Your threads in the tapestry look more orderly today, shieldmaiden.” Alfrun caught up with her on the march, leaning on her horned staff. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing that's your business, witch,” Folka answered, but her words lacked the bite. And if her step was lighter today, Folka wasn't going to deny it.

Several days ago she was ready to die by Bolverk's hand if it meant he didn't care for her anymore. Now, when she thought of facing Bolverk again, it didn't fill her with that black despair. She would face him, and fight him, and she would survive. And then she would lead the Ravens to the new day.

And she would ask Apostate to join them. The Ravens would profit from a powerful weaver in their ranks.

After she learned his faen language, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has a fanart now! The artist wanted to remain anonymous.


End file.
